


On Lightning, Which Occasionally Strikes Twice

by Nary



Category: Gentlemen of the Road - Michael Chabon
Genre: Adventure, Animals in Peril, Boats and Ships, Canon Character of Color, Canon Jewish Character, Chromatic Yuletide, Fortune Telling, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hats, Horses, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our heroes take a journey by sea, which they have cause to regret, and come to the tent of the feathered man, where they learn their fortunes and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Lightning, Which Occasionally Strikes Twice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brigdh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat! 
> 
> A big thank you to my betas :)

Zelikman had given Amram free rein to choose their next destination. Perhaps when he did so he had imagined that the Abyssinian might wish to return to Byzantium, or even to his own long-neglected homeland in Africa. He would have welcomed such a journey, one that might have brought some measure of comfort and warmth after the chill of the Caucasus in winter. Instead, Amram thought long on the matter as they made their night's camp by the Caspian Sea two days outside Derbent, and finally said, "Samarkand."

"Samarkand?" Zelikman looked as if he would have liked to question the choice, but thought better of it. "Do you have a longing to follow the Radanites and turn merchant, or just to steal fine silks and spices for a change?"

Amram's face glistened like polished copper in the firelight. "Their slave market is said to be one of the largest in the world."

"Slaves," Zelikman pointed out, filling his pipe, "we have no need of, unless you have taken a fancy to retire from this life and become a farmer."

"It would not be such a bad thing," Amram mused quietly, "to be a farmer or a merchant. But not, I think, yet. Not yet."

Having accepted their fated destination, they argued over the best route to achieve it. Amram would have them cross the Caspian Sea by boat, saying it would be faster, but Zelikman balked at the idea. "We could ride north," he began, but Amram shook his head.

"Deserts of snow, and more Rus, are all that lie that way."

"Then south," Zelikman argued. "Back the way we came, and down towards Rhages and eastwards from there." 

It was a more reasonable solution, that was the route most of the trade caravans took, but Amram frowned and pulled his wolf-cloak tighter around his aching bones. The snow had already started to fly, and it would only be worse as winter wore on. He knew in his heart that he would die in a cold land but he felt no urge to chase that death down some icy mountain pass and embrace it. "The boat," he proclaimed, as if it was a new commandment.

Zelikman sighed. "Not unless I can take Hillel on your boat too," he said begrudgingly, and thus the matter was settled at last. 

The Uighur merchant who owned the ship, a moon-faced man named Hoshur, traded in wine - jugs as fat and round as he himself, and as full of spirit. He had been reluctant to take them aboard at first, but the bag of coin Zelikman proffered soon swayed him in a more favorable direction. "Horse too big," he told them in mediocre Greek. "No horse."

Zelikman shot Amram a pointed glance. The African, without comment, handed over a further sum of coin, and Hoshur had to be satisfied with that. It was more than double what he would have made for the extra amphorae of wine, the space of which would now be occupied by beasts who belonged on land, not sea. 

Hillel, while hobbled, proved to be a splendid sailor, far better than his rider. Zelikman spent the better part of the voyage hanging over the boat's edge or curled up against the gunwale, looking pale and murderous. Amram resisted the urge to laugh at him, and instead followed his directions to make an infusion of ginger-root that served to calm his guts for a while. Porphyrogene was less easy, shying and rolling his eyes, and Amram spent some time each day sitting beside him, speaking to him calmly in Ge'ez, promising him lush grass and plump mares when they finally arrived. 

Hoshur's ship, which in his own tongue he called Little Sturgeon, was narrow and built for swiftness. He skirted the coast, making stops at Astara, Anzali, Mashadsar. He would normally finish his journey at Bandar, trading the last of his wine for the silk and cotton that he would bring back along the same route. Transporting passengers, he felt, was hardly worth the trouble they brought, no matter how good their coin. The traders Hoshur was accustomed to dealing with, men he had exchanged goods with for years, looked warily on these strangers, and some few refused outright to deal with the merchant while he harbored them. It was ill luck they brought, and more than once he considered departing in the dark of night and leaving them behind. Each time they stopped in a port, his guests would descend on shaky legs and betake themselves to whatever dingy tavern or caravansary they could find, leaving him to wonder each time if they would vanish for good. "With or without them," he thought, "I will leave at dawn." But each morning they returned, sometimes looking bleary-eyed or ashen-faced, once being chased by an angry crowd, but always ready to continue their journey.

At last they drew near to their ultimate destination - or rather, Hoshur's destination, for he gathered that his passengers intended to continue eastwards. The passage into the shallow Gorgan Gulf, sheltered from the wider sea by a thin strip of sandy dunes, was not an easy one, and much depended on the navigator's skill and the vagaries of the wind and currents. Hoshur's bad luck held firm - the clouds, which had been grey and heavy all day, darkened still further, and a fierce wind swirled around them as rain began to pour down. The storm pushed them north, past the entrance to the bay, further up the coast. Hoshur shouted orders to his crew, ignoring his passengers for the moment. When the force of the storm tore one of the lines from the hands of his youngest nephew, the large dark-skinned one reached out and grabbed it, hauling it back. The skinny pale one, though, clung to the mast and shouted curses at the storm or his companion or both.

Lightning split the sky, thin and bright like the narrow sword Zelikman carried at his belt, followed an instant later by a roll of thunder, low as Amram's laugh but not nearly as pleasant. "If we die here," Zelikman called to his friend, "I hold you personally responsible."

Amram did not reply at once, being occupied with assisting the crew to bring down the vast canvas sail as best as he was able. He was no sailor, but he had done a little of everything in his day, and knew enough to follow orders. "We aren't going to die," he shouted back when he had a moment's breath in his lungs. "Here, at any rate," he added belatedly.

As he uttered those words, lightning forked down and struck the ship's mast. Hoshur cried prayers to Tengri and Perun and Shangdi, whoever would spare his ship, but it seemed all gods were deaf to his wailing. The mast split and fell, burning, to the deck, tilting the entire ship sharply with its weight, the shrouds snapping uselessly in the wind. The sea rushed over the side of the ship for a long moment as all the sailors (and Amram) rushed to try and right it, and suddenly they were up to their ankles in freezing water. Meanwhile the yard, also aflame by now, crashed down, and the fire began spreading along the ship's seams that were coated thickly with pine resin. It seemed they would have a choice of deaths, Zelikman thought as he crawled towards where Hillel was hobbled. "All is lost!" Hoshur cried, "save yourselves!" And he was seized by the grasping waves and they saw him no more. 

Drawing his knife with numbed fingers, Zelikman cut the ropes that held Hillel's legs, then, managing to avoid the panicked horse's hooves, liberated Porphyrogene as well. The spotted Parthian reared, silhouetted against the lightning-rent sky, and leapt into the water, swimming so hard he churned the waves into foam. Zelikman thought perhaps the horse had the right idea. Holding tight to Hillel's mane and making sure his bag was secured, he turned, seeking Amram. The African was struggling to free one of the sailors who had become caught in the lines. Only once he was assured that the young man was untangled did he cross the rapidly-foundering vessel to Zelikman and their gear. "We must swim," he shouted over the storm's din, strapping Mother-Defiler firmly to his back.

"Was it when he shouted 'All is lost' that you reached that conclusion?" Zelikman was angry, which served to keep his fear at bay as they abandoned the sinking ship. He kept close to Hillel, who seemed to have a firm idea of which direction to swim in. Amram struck out in that direction as well, cutting through the water with powerful strokes. Zelikman did not have the same strength, and was weighed down by Lancet at his side, and the contents of his bag - his herbiary, his surgeon's tools, his Persian glass, his remaining coin... He held onto Hillel's neck as best as he could, and simply tried to keep his head above the surging waves. 

The sandy shore where they finally fetched up was deserted. Zelikman collapsed, coughing up water that tasted of tears, and Amram lay on his front, arms spread wide, simply embracing the land once more. Hillel staggered some way up the beach, into the tall, wildly whipping marsh-grass, and laid down as well.

After quite some time, the rain dwindled to a light drizzle, and Zelikman sat up. His wet hair hung in tangles past his shoulders. "My hat," he said miserably.

They stood, begrudging every movement, and looked at where they had found themselves. There was little to see - sand and grass and some few splintered pieces of wood from the wreck. None of the other sailors were anywhere to be seen, nor was Porphyrogene. Some distance east, hills stood out against the sky, like slate against granite. "We can hope they have made it to shore somewhere else," Amram said, without too much optimism. "For now, we need to find shelter."

Zelikman was busy searching through the contents of his pack. Although nothing had been lost, it was all saturated with water. His herbs, wrapped in papyrus, were sodden. "Ruined," he muttered, but yet he did not cast any of them aside. Some, he thought, he might be able to dry by the fire - assuming they were able to build a fire in this wet and windswept land. The waterlogged planks from the wreck were all the wood that was visible in any direction.

Rousing Hillel, he inspected the stallion for any injuries, and was thankful to see that he seemed sound, if weary. The horse nuzzled against his hand, as if in gratitude or relief, and Zelikman was comforted by that small gesture. As he looked towards the hills, he thought he glimpsed a thin spire of smoke rising to the sky, scudding with the wind and disappearing once it reached a certain height. He drew it to Amram's attention. "It could be a hunter's camp, or a shepherd perhaps," he suggested.

"We are strangers, and whoever it belongs to, they may not welcome guests," Amram replied. "But we have little choice, it seems." It would take most of the remaining light, feeble though it was, to walk that distance, and so they set off.

Once they left the beach behind, the land was marshy in places but not impossible to walk through. Narrow streams wove their way through the wetland, threading together at times and then fraying apart again. A group of storks, disrupted by their passage, rose up in a cloud of sooty black wings as they approached. Gradually the ground became more solid, less prone to suck the boots from their feet, and the little streams were spun together into a winding river. The hills grew larger, illuminated faintly by the setting sun in moments when it managed to break through the clouds. A single tree, twisted and bare of leaves, stood at the top of one. Figures moved on the side of the hill, a cluster of black and grey forms meandering gradually down the slope. "Sheep," Zelikman confirmed with a glance through his Persian glass. "A shepherd's shelter, then."

The shelter in question was a yurt, a tent with walls made of hide and lined with felted wool. It was dingy and grey, like the landscape, but the smoke rising from the hole in its roof indicated that it was indeed inhabited. Hillel nickered softly to see that there was a horse grazing nearby, presumably the beast that would carry the tent when its owner needed to move, following his flock to better grazing. As they drew closer, they could see that flock, which numbered perhaps fifty beasts and, pacing guardedly around its edge, a thick-furred dog, black like a sheep itself, but with a pointed, wolfish face.

Amram sniffed suspiciously at the air. The smoke carried an aroma that was strange, acrid, like burning herbs. "What is it?" he asked Zelikman under his breath. The skinny Frank's nose wrinkled in uncertainty and he shrugged. 

Amram called out a greeting, first in Persian, then Arabic, then Greek for good measure. He assured the tent's inhabitant that they meant no harm, that they were shipwrecked travelers seeking shelter for the night. He had no idea if he was being understood, or indeed heard. The wind rippled the tent's walls and the horse that stood tethered nearby watched them curiously. It was a thin-chested, long-legged mare, but did not seem malnourished, and its golden coat glistened in the vanishing light. Hillel huffed at the air but Zelikman kept him close, wary.

The opening to the yurt twitched and a face peered out. It was a man, wrinkled and weathered but perhaps not yet old, for he still stood straight-backed and strong, though he was small of stature. His beard was a wispy mixture of black and grey, and his nose jutted out like a beak. He wore a large round hat of black sheepskin, and was wrapped in a robe that fluttered in the wind like the storks' feathers. As he stepped out, it became clear that in fact his robe was covered with feathers. "Guests," he said hesitantly in Persian, his voice creaking as if rarely used. He beckoned to them with fingers gnarled and filthy. "Come closer."

Amram stepped forward, keeping his hands to his sides so as to emphasize how harmless he was. Zelikman followed a few steps behind, more suspicious, and his hand was not far from Lancet's pommel if the need arose.

"Your water-steed, she broke," the man said, and for a moment they thought he was speaking about the horse. But his finger pointed out towards the sea, and they understood he meant the shipwreck.

"Yes," Amram replied. "It was struck by lightning in the storm, and sank. We need shelter, food if you have any to spare..."

But the man waved a hand as if this was of no import. He approached them, and they could scent the strange smell of burning grass clinging about his form. At his neck he wore an amulet, which he clutched in one grimy hand. "You come in," he said at last. "Bring horse to there." He pointed to where his own steed stood. Zelikman walked Hillel over to the edge of the narrow stream, where there was enough sagebrush to make grazing possible, if perhaps not too palatable. The mare snorted at the new arrival, but seemed friendly enough when Hillel trotted over to her side and began to munch on the same patch of brush.

Amram waited near the entrance of the yurt for his companion to return. Their host had already vanished back into its depths, it seemed. "I don't have a good feeling about this," Amram murmured in Hebrew, and Zelikman nodded his agreement. "Be careful." And so they stepped into the tent, ducking their heads at its low roof.

Inside, the yurt was lit by a small fire which burned not wood but dried dung, patties of which were stacked neatly against one side of the tent. Amram wondered if that was the source of the strange smell, but he wasn't sure it was. Hanging from the curved roof were bundles of dried herbs, giving the entire chamber a strongly medicinal smell. More mysteriously, there was also a pile of bones, cleaned of flesh and stored more or less neatly near the back of the tent. Zelikman eyed them warily, but concluded that they were sheep bones - the bone of the shoulder blade, he guessed by their size and shape. Some of them, he thought, had some sort of markings on them, but in the faint light he couldn't tell what they might be. Also, the smoke was enough to make his eyes water. Over the fire, suspended from a tripod, hung a pot of stew that scented the air as well. It seemed that their host had been preparing to eat when they arrived. 

Though they were reluctant to take a share of this man's already meager meal, he pressed it on them, along with some pieces of flatbread grilled on a heated stone. The stew was composed of peas cooked until they were almost mush, supplemented with onion and a few sparse pieces of mutton. Zelikman tried to identify the spices it contained, but all he was able to name with any confidence were pepper and parsley, though there were other flavors present as well. Once it was clear that their host truly intended for them to dine with him, Amram ate heartily, while Zelikman was more abstemious. Despite (or perhaps because of) his many exertions of the day already, he felt unsettled, and longed for the comfort of his pipe, the paste for which had been ruined by its immersion.

The conversation over their dinner was simple - the man spoke some Persian, but it was clear his native tongue was some other language entirely. Amram did the lion's share of the talking, attempting to glean from him any indication of settlements nearby, whether merchants ever passed this way, which direction they would need to go in order to reach a more substantial habitation. The answers he received were unclear at best. "Yes, yes, five, six, seven days south, many people," was the best they could get from him.

"We can always follow the shore back the way we came, and eventually we should reach Hoshur's port, whatever its name is," Zelikman said wearily, still in the holy tongue. All he wanted to do right now was curl up and try to sleep if he could, although he doubted whether much rest would come to him.

Amram nodded. "It will be slow, with only one horse." He shot Zelikman a glance and his friend could see that he was weighing the possibility of acquiring a second. But to steal from the humble shepherd who had given them food and shelter, who had but one horse of his own which he presumably needed to transport his camp, seemed wrong, even for gentlemen of the road, schemers without conscience or regret. 

Their grizzled companion's gaze darted between them, and Zelikman was uncertain if he was following the conversation or not. It was doubtful whether he knew the language - few did, outside their faith - but he was sharp-eyed, and Zelikman wondered if he might be able to read the tone of their voices or the movements of their bodies instead. "Then it will be slow," he said, and fell silent, mistrusting their privacy.

The man in the feathered robe - Zelikman still was not sure of his age, although certainly he was well past his youth - took down the empty stewpot and put in its place a kettle, seemingly well-used and polished to a shine. He reached up and plucked some leaves from one of the hanging bundles and, grinding them roughly between his fingers, he tossed them into the water and left it to steep. "Tea," he said unnecessarily. It was doubtful whether he often entertained guests, but from somewhere he managed to produce three small cups of fired clay. Traced in their sides with a reed or the tip of a feather were intricate designs that pressed against the fingers as if inscribing them in their turn.

The tea was bitter, unsweetened by even a drop of honey, and tasted something like mint. Amram grimaced at first, but the taste soon grew on him - at least, it helped to warm his hands, and soon, the rest of him as well, spreading through him like a gentle caress. Their clothes were steaming now in the heat of the tent, the water coming out of them in rivulets. Amram shrugged off his wolf cloak and laid it aside, and Zelikman wrung out the hem of his shirt as best as he could. His hair would be a disaster if he allowed it to dry this way, though, and so, setting aside his tea for a moment, he reached into his satchel and retrieved his comb of bone.

"You not finish," the man said, pointing to the cup.

"In a few moments," Zelikman told him, struggling to untangle his hair. 

"Better while it is hot," their host insisted, but did not press him further. Amram, on the other hand, accepted a second cup of the pungent liquid.

"Tell me," said the feathered man. "Your water-steed..."

"Ship," Amram interjected helpfully.

"Your ship, she burn in water?" His expression suggested he was unsure how this miracle could come to pass.

"Lightning struck it," Amram explained, and when that word seemed to puzzle the man, he attempted to elucidate further. "A great storm," he said, gesturing to the unseen sky, his hands casting shadows that seemed to conjure clouds on the tent's ceiling to the mind's eye, then fingers trembling downwards to indicate torrents of rain. His breath mimicked the wind, and the man nodded with understanding. Finally, to complete his pantomime, Amram extended his index finger and brought it snaking downwards, concluding with a deep rumbling in his throat like thunder.

"Ah," said the man, his eyes widening, and then he uttered something that sounded like chakmak, which Amram concluded was his own word for lightning. Again he grasped at the stone charm that hung on a leather thong around his neck, as if for some superstitious ward, and muttered words in his native tongue. "A strong sign, lightning," he said at last, twisting his tongue around the unfamiliar word and nodding to each of them. "You are marked by the god, _yol tengri_ , the god of the road."

Zelikman grew weary of this talk. "Too late," he said, continuing to work his comb through the salt-stiffened knots of his hair as well as he was able. "We both already have a covenant with the God of Abraham, and his mark is upon us, whether we wish it so or not."

Amram, however, smiled. "Any god who wishes to bless us is welcome - especially a god of the roads. We can use all the help we can get." He hesitated. "Then again, I'm not sure that was a blessing."

"Hardly the sort we wish to encourage," Zelikman agreed, setting aside his comb and picking up his cooling tea once more. "I would sooner be ignored by such gods than draw their attention."

The feathered man shrugged as if their disbelief made no difference to his own deity having reached down from the heavens to alter their course. "Your fortunes," he said, "I will read in the bones." Standing, he went to the stack of sheep scapulae and shuffled through them, discarding some for unknown reasons before settling on two that seemed to suit his purpose. He brought them back over to the fire and, taking his knife, a long, pointed blade, he set to carving certain runes into their polished surfaces.

Amram grew uneasy at this - it was too close to trifling with the spirits of the dead for his comfort, even if the dead in this case were rams. Zelikman, for his part, considered it the basest foolishness to imagine that anyone could know the future, no matter the tools they tried to use. He had seen diviners who claimed to read the stars and the flight of birds and the lines of a man's hand, and none of them had any more insight into what was to come than any others. Besides, he thought, if a man's fate truly was written ahead of time, then what good would it do to know it? It would be impossible to change, and would only bring futile worries, of which he already had more than enough. He wished once again for his pipe, although he did feel a certain warmth and unusual calm spreading through him. He reclined on a pile of greasy sheepskins, still keeping half an eye on what the feathered man was doing, out of mild curiosity and a pessimistic nature.

The bird-cloaked man spoke words over the first bone, spitting upon it before casting it into the fire, which flared up and cast stark shadows onto the tent's rippling walls. The wind outside howled like a wolf, and Amram wondered if the sheep were safe, if the dog that guarded them was strong enough to fend off any predators that might come sniffing around. After a time, the bone in the fire groaned and then cracked, fine lines spreading through its surface like lightning bolts. The feathered man pulled it out again with the spoon he had used to stir the pottage earlier, leaving it to cool while he performed the same course of actions with the second bone. The second bone was more stubborn to give up its secrets, but eventually it whined and jerked in the flames, and then broke into two uneven pieces, one large and one small. The seer made a slight sound of surprise and tried to draw out both segments, but the smaller one slid stubbornly away from his spoon. At last he retrieved it, but it was blackened and shattered.

"What does it mean?" Amram asked, against his better judgment. He sensed it could be no favorable omen. Even Zelikman felt ill at ease, and told himself again and again that it meant nothing, that this man was either a charlatan, or was deluded, like all the others. 

The man stroked his wispy beard and looked pensive. Perhaps he was simply seeking the words to explain what the omen meant. "You," he said, pointing to Zelikman, "first bone is yours. Brittle, hard. You let no one see inside. You go far, very far to seek a..." He grasped at the air as if it would bring him the word he required. "...a healing. A medicine. But it is not so far."

Zelikman frowned, rolling over onto his side with the sheepskin around him. "Wake me up if he starts making any sense," he told Amram.

The seer turned to the African, holding up the shattered fragment of blackened bone. "This," he said, "is someone lost from you. Someone," and here he tapped his chest with one crooked finger, "gone, but not gone." He scratched a fine black ash from the surface of the bone and blew it away. Amram nodded against his will, for he knew that this man, through whatever arcane knowledge he possessed, spoke of his daughter Dinah. The man held up the larger piece of bone then, showing it to him, pointing to certain symbols that were meaningless to Amram. "But here," he said, tracing fine lines with his finger, "your road ends in a distant land. Your home, never again you see."

Amram already knew all of this in his heart. "But will I find her?" he asked, hoping with a long-diminished hope, with a father's blind faith.

The feathered man closed his fist around the small portion of bone. When he opened it again, it had crumbled further, into three smaller shards. "It is thus," he said, and cast them to the ground, but Amram could not guess at the significance of this gesture.

"Does that mean no?" 

"Not in the form you seek," replied the seer, and put the rest of the broken bones aside as well. "You sleep," he told them - indeed, Zelikman was already snoring, and Amram felt drowsiness stealing over him too. "I look after sheep tonight. I watch." The sight of him slipping out of the tent, the robe flapping about him like wings as the wind stole inside, was the last thing Amram remembered for quite some time.

Zelikman awoke with a start. Some sound, he felt sure, had shaken him from his rest. His head felt heavy, clouded, moreso than it should have simply due to waking from a deep sleep. He looked around in the dark, unsure at first where he was. The smell of greasy wool and smouldering dung reminded him after a few moments. He listened again, straining his ears for whatever the sound might have been that had wakened him so abruptly. From nearby he could hear Amram's sonorous snores, but those he was well accustomed to, and he did not think it likely they were the source of his unease. Rather, he normally found them comforting. He could hear the wind, as ever, and over that endless breath of the sky, he heard another sound, faint and distant, but unmistakable. Hillel's whinny, a shrill cry of fear from the companion he held closest to his heart apart from Amram. He was on his feet, though they felt numb and unsteady. He realized at last, his mind working too slowly, that he had been drugged. Perhaps they both had, by means of some herb in the stew or the tea, though he couldn't be sure which. "Amram," he said, and poked him in the leg with the toe of his boot. "Wake up, I need you."

Amram grumbled and rolled over, turning his back on Zelikman. As a former soldier, he was accustomed to rude awakenings and the need to be ready to fight at a moment's notice, but now he was unable to be stirred, even by Zelikman's increasingly vigorous kicks and curses. The physician stopped his assault on the fortress of his friend's sleep and listened more carefully. Amram's breathing, he thought, sounded more shallow than it ought to, and he was concerned that he could not be wakened. But at the same time, he heard another scream from Hillel, and that settled his resolve. Amram would, he trusted, survive for some time, perhaps with nothing worse than a headache in the morning, but Hillel's danger sounded more immediate. "Don't die," he ordered Amram, doubting whether he could hear him but delivering the stern command nevertheless. Drawing Lancet, he rushed out of the tent and into the windswept night.

The moon was invisible, hidden by the blanket of clouds, and the only light was that of the few stars that were bold enough to peep through that heavy cover. Zelikman scanned the horizon as best as he could, looking for Hillel, for the shepherd, for anything at all that he could perceive in the stygian gloom. In the darkness, the sheep bleated and hurried away from him, disturbed by his presence, or by some other noise perhaps. As he cast his eyes around, he caught a glimpse of some movement, something slightly darker than the night, moving up the hillside, and Hillel's panicked cry drifted once again to his ears. He set off running, not knowing what he would find, but prepared to defend his beloved horse against any enemies. 

Zelikman stumbled more than once, hurrying over unfamiliar ground in the pitch black night. Each time he pushed himself up again, forcing himself to go on for Hillel's sake. At last he reached the crest of the hill, where the gnarled and solitary tree stood. At that moment, blessedly, the moon emerged from behind a bank of clouds, and he was able to see the scene with a horrible clarity. Hillel was tied to a limb of the tree, his head twisted up at an unnatural angle, his feet first kicking to escape, then falling worryingly still as each kick only choked him further. Zelikman's first, crazed thought was that he had wandered here and somehow entangled himself by accident. But there was no way, he saw as he approached carefully, that the horse could have managed to knot his halter around a branch in such a way. It would have required some other interference...

He was struck suddenly behind by the weight of a body, shoving him to the muddy ground. So distracted had he been by Hillel's thrashing that he had failed to notice someone sneaking up behind him. He tried to turn, to roll over and fight back, and felt a sharp pain in his back: a wound, but how serious he did not know. Lancet was to his side as he fell, not beneath him - a small piece of good fortune. Beneath him, rolling and slipping in the mud, he felt loose bone, stripped bare of flesh and lying scattered on the charnel ground of the hilltop. 

The man in the feathered cloak stepped over him and towards Hillel, the moonlight glinting off the blade of his knife. Zelikman struggled to his feet, his injury forgotten. If he could have seen himself, covered in mud and blood, his face contorted with rage, he would have thought himself more beast than man, but none of that mattered now. "Don't touch my horse," he snarled, following it with an oath recommending monogenesis.

The feathered man only shook his head, perhaps even a little sadly. "What is touched by the lightning belongs to the gods," he called over the wind, which was stronger here at the crest of the hill. "Do not go against this gift - it is for you, in your place."

Zelikman parsed the halting words and understood that Hillel was about to be sacrificed, and that this time there would be no voice of God to halt the blade and say it had only been a test. He pushed himself forward, staggering, doubting whether he could reach the man in time to stop him, unsure whether he would have the strength, and yet seeing no other choice before him.

The man in the feathered robe intoned words in his own tongue as he lifted his knife to Hillel's throat. Zelikman screamed, beyond words, driven purely by instinct. And as he did so, his voice was echoed by another cry - a horse's, but not Hillel's. He knew Hillel's voice like he knew Amram's, or his own, and this was a different sound. It was enough to make the bird-man turn away for a moment, to see where the sound was coming from. Zelikman seized the moment to make a last, desperate rush forward, and heard at the same time the wet pounding of hooves. He turned his head long enough to see the golden mare bearing down on them, her flanks mud-spattered and heaving and her mane sodden, the frayed rope that had tethered her hanging loose. He ducked behind Hillel's body - not knowing if there was life in it still or not - and so he heard rather than saw the man's scream and the sickening crunching sound of hoof meeting bone. He reached for the rope that bound Hillel and cut it free, and his horse fell, slumping forward on his knees. The golden mare, calmer now, paced towards him and nudged Hillel with her soft nose, and to Zelikman's immense relief, Hillel gave a gentle sigh back. All else in the world seemed less terrible - his horse still lived.

That was more than could be said for the feathered man, though. Once he was assured that Hillel was well, Zelikman circled to check on him, and found him lying face down in the mud, his skull shattered and body lifeless. His large black hat lay a short distance off, where it had fallen. There was nothing to be done for him, but his demise had at least been swift. Zelikman picked up the hat, brushing it off absently as he considered the matter. The man's death raised renewed questions for Zelikman, things he would have wished to know from him - the names and properties of many of his herbs, for instance, and what he had dosed Amram with...

Thinking of Amram filled him with a new urgency, but any rapid movements caused the wound in his back - a flesh wound, he thought, or at least he trusted it had not penetrated any organs - to sear with pain. Zelikman had little memory of how he made it back to the tent, only that it seemed to take far longer than it should have, and involved falling down several times. When he finally reached the yurt and flung its door open, stumbling inside, he was both delighted and frustrated to see that Amram was stirring, just waking up. He had slept through the entire commotion, and now was stretching and yawning as after a sound night's rest. 

"No help at all," Zelikman grumbled, and then fell forwards, narrowly missing hitting his head on the ring of stones around the fire. 

Some while later, he woke and became gradually aware that it was light outside. The walls of the yurt glowed dimly with the sunlight passing through them, and somewhere nearby Amram was moving about. His clothes were off and he was not nearly as filthy as he seemed to remember being most recently. "Stay still," his companion instructed him when he tried to sit up. "You need to rest."

Zelikman ignored this, but found that sitting up was still somewhat beyond his powers. Instead he felt for his lower back, wincing when he touched the freshly-stitched wound.

"Not as neat as your work," Amram told him, coming to sit at his side, "but a fair trade for the many times you've sewn me up." He had a clay bowl of water and Zelikman's comb in his hand. Setting the bowl down, he began the lengthy process of combing and washing Zelikman's fine yellow hair. Zelikman made some token protests but was bullied into silence, reclining once more and permitting Amram to take care of him. He closed his eyes, savoring only slightly reluctantly the unusual sensation of being looked after. 

"Hillel," he mumbled eventually, when his memories of the night before began to return to him more clearly.

"Hillel is fine - inseparable from his new lady friend, though," Amram told him, his fingers caught for a moment in a snarl of fair hair. 

"You did need a new mount before we could go on," Zelikman suggested. "Perhaps you had best think of a name for her."

Amram chuckled, fanning Zelikman's hair over his leg to smooth it out. "Perhaps I should call her Lightning." He grew more solemn, like a momentary cloud passing over the face of the sun. "Shall I ask what happened last night? I am sorry that I slept through it."

"Your slumber was not a natural one," Zelikman told him, his voice faltering slightly. "Our host drugged us - you more successfully than me, it would seem - and then attempted to sacrifice Hillel to his savage god because he had been marked, apparently. By the lightning strike." 

"If Hillel was so marked, then so are we," Amram said with a shrug. "We are fortunate he didn't take it into his head to offer us up too."

"I would have killed him," Zelikman said, "rather than allow him to harm Hillel. Or you." He reached out to touch Amram's hand as it dipped back towards the bowl of water, closing his long, slim fingers around that wide wrist.

Amram looked down at him in mild surprise, but did not draw away from his touch. "Or I you," he told the companion of his heart. Zelikman took count of his pulse, a habit impossible to break for a physician, and felt it increasing, the blood pulsing beneath a thin layer of skin. "What I feared when I woke in the night as you stumbled in and fell... I have no wish to repeat."

Zelikman thought of his own dread at being unable to waken Amram, and nodded, unwilling to put those thoughts into words for fear of conjuring them up again in all their frightfulness. They stayed that way for some time, and eventually Amram brought his other hand to rest on top of Zelikman's, so that they were clasped together. It was not something they could speak about, but what they could not achieve with words, they could convey with the warmth of their skin and the closeness of their bodies. Zelikman whimpered only a little when Amram gathered him gently into his arms, helping him to lean against his broad chest in a way that favored his injured side.

"I cannot," he whispered.

"You cannot because it hurts too much now, or because you cannot do this with me at all?" Amram asked cautiously, pausing in his stroking of his companion's hair.

"It hurts, and... I will not know what to do," he admitted, embarrassed. 

Amram smiled, but did not laugh at least. "That, fortunately, you can learn," he assured him. "But when you are more healed."

"I may never be healed. If I wait until that day, then fear will overtake me and this moment will be lost." Zelikman tilted his head up, stubborn. "What can we do now?"

Without speaking, Amram bent down and kissed him. It felt strange, the roughness of unshaved skin and lips chapped by salt and storm, but something within Zelikman accepted it as right. When it ended, he stayed nestled in the shelter of Amram's neck, not wanting to relinquish so soon what he had discovered. Amram stroked his bared chest, thin and pale beneath his dark hand, and Zelikman shivered at his touch, at the strength beneath the tenderness.

"Rest now," Amram told him at last, prying his arms free and helping him to lie down against the sheepskin rugs once more. "I will still be here when you wake." Zelikman trusted him to keep his word, and that faith, the only one he still held to, permitted him to close his eyes and sleep once more.

Again he woke, this time as the sun was setting, and now a fierce hunger seized him, even as he scented food. Amram was crouched by the fire, stirring something in the pot that smelled delicious. Even so, Zelikman was wary. "You didn't use any of the unfamiliar herbs, did you?"

"Only the ones I recognized - and tasted first," Amram told him. "Dill and bay, is that acceptable to your delicate palate?"

"It's fine," Zelikman grumbled, and simultaneously felt relieved that this much, at least, was still the same. In fact, the stew was delicious - or maybe that was just his unaccustomed hunger. He devoured two bowls of it, and then, after Amram helped him rise so that he could go outside and make water, and see Hillel for a few moments, he returned to rest once more. At some point in the night he woke, anxious, and felt that Amram was curled up close beside him, and the familiar warmth and smell of him was enough to help him sleep again. 

On the morrow, Zelikman was restless, ready to move once more, although his wound still stung when he twisted or bent the wrong way. Amram, though, in his unaccustomed role as physician, insisted they remain at least one more day before he attempted to ride. "You would say the same if I were the patient," he pointed out.

"And you would still complain if you were the patient," Zelikman retorted. He spent the day instead going through the unfamiliar pharmacopeia that was contained within the tent, attempting to identify each herb, or, where he was unable to put a name to it, at least ascertaining what its properties were, in order to restock what he could of his supplies that had been ruined. He located the mint-like herb that had been used in the tea, and decided that, for the time being, in more measured doses, it might serve in place of his pipe. Amram, for his part, slaughtered and roasted one of the sheep that hadn't wandered too far off in the absence of their shepherd, so that they could dine well before they set off again. He also dug a grave for the bird-cloaked man at the foot of the hill, and buried him in his robe of feathers.

"I am much improved," Zelikman insisted after their feast. "I made a poultice of yarrow - or something like it, at any rate."

"Good," Amram said, tossing the bone he had been sucking the last pieces of meat from to the dog, which lurked around the edge of the campsite but would not yet come closer. "Then tonight, you can learn something new." 

That night he did indeed learn much that was new to him, and some that was at least not completely unfamiliar, and each man found something in himself that he had thought was lost. Amram swore with a soldier's careless ease in the midst of his pleasure, while Zelikman was unusually hushed, as if speaking, or even sighing too loudly, might draw unwanted attention and thus ruin this moment. But Amram found ways to unlock his lips at last, with fingers both callused and cunning, guiding him until Zelikman cried out for mercy. Even those cries he buried in Amram's chest, so that he could be sure they were for him and no other. 

They slept well beyond the dawn, and were awakened by the sound of many rushing wings, as the storks returned once more to the marsh. "Past time we were leaving," Amram said, and Zelikman concurred wholeheartedly. Packing their supplies, along with a fair portion of their former host's goods (for who else was going to use them?) they set off eastward. Zelikman took the sheepskin hat and tried it on - the black suited him, although it was not as luxurious as his last one. The gods of the road, if such there were, favored them, and they had much still to explore.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [naryrising](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/naryrising) if you want to ask questions, make requests, or chat!


End file.
